One Way sa-5

by Tom Barber

  Pocketing the cell phone, he turned to his guys.

  ‘Anything?’

  They shook their heads. ‘They disappeared,’ one of them said, talking fast. He sniffed and looked up the stairwell.

  ‘Not for long,’ Braeten said, reloading his pistol with a fresh clip, letting the empty magazine fall to the floor. ‘Back up is on the way.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  He pulled the slide. ‘The clients. They’re sending help.’

  One of them went to speak but they heard the sound of sirens from the street outside. The four men paused momentarily, looking at each other.

  Then they took off down the stairs back to the ground floor.

  The first call to the NYPD’s emergency hotline had occurred less than thirty seconds after the initial shots were fired on West 89th. Officers already in the area had either heard the weapons’ reports and were already on their way, or had been ordered to the scene immediately by Dispatch, their phone lines suddenly inundated with crisis calls. By the time any of them made it to the scene, the Tahoe and the pursuit car were already racing away through the streets, heading uptown through the Upper West and on into Harlem. The two cars had carved through three different NYPD areas, which meant there were now scores of blue and white NYPD vehicles converging from all directions on the scene from the 24th, 26th and 30th Precincts. Jurisdiction was collective here; these assholes had opened fire on the street in one of the safest neighbourhoods in the city. Right now, it was open season.

  The squad cars were all arriving outside the tenement on West 135th around the same time, lights flashing and sirens wailing as they screeched to a halt. The officers immediately saw the two abandoned cars from the chase, both of them shot up with all the doors open. One of the vehicles was a black Tahoe which had slammed into a fire hydrant on the corner, water spraying up high into the air.

  Beside it, the front door of a tenement block was hanging open, the lock smashed, bits of chalk and brickwork scattered in front of it.

  Some of the arriving officers pulled their side-arms and immediately positioned themselves behind their cars, covering colleagues who were quickly pushing curious members of the public back and securing the area.

  Suddenly one of the cops went down with a shout of pain as a gunshot echoed around the street.

  He clutched his thigh as two more shots hit the police car behind him.

  The cops ducked down behind cover as more gunfire erupted from the entrance of the building, muzzle flashes lighting up the street. One of the officers crawled around the side of his car and managed to drag his injured partner back, bullets ripping into the vehicle, smashing glass and riddling the blue and white with holes. The rate of fire suddenly went up a hundred notches, the terrifying echo of an assault rifle filling the Avenue as bullets shredded into the cop cars, showering the officers ducked behind with glass and shrapnel.

  Pulling open the door of his vehicle, the officer who’d saved his partner reached inside and grabbed both the Mossberg riot gun from its position between the front seats and the radio receiver, jerking as the window above his head was blown out.

  Beside him, the wounded cop lay to one side, clutching his leg in agony as other officers started to return fire at whoever was shooting from inside the entrance of the building.

  SEVEN

  Upstairs, the group in the apartment heard the shots. Seeing as they were on the south-east side, their view of the front of the building was limited. They looked down from the window and saw a series of NYPD cop cars pulled up in the street, others screeching into position as the officers took cover from gunfire that ripped into their vehicles.

  They watched as the cops fired back, the street transformed into another violent battle with them as onlookers this time instead of participants. The barrelling sound of the AK-47 echoed above the other gunshots as they watched the side of a squad car get shredded to pieces by the rifle, the officers behind crowding down for cover.

  ‘Jesus,’ Barlow said. ‘It’s World War Three down there. These guys aren’t backing down.’

  Beside him, Archer observed the activity below but didn’t speak. The grey-haired Marshal studied the street for moment through the same window, then turned and moved over to the couch.

  Carson was lying there twisting in pain, blood all over the front of his shirt and hands, the sinews of his neck pronounced and visible as he gritted his teeth. The big man knelt down but couldn’t check the wound due to the blood and Carson’s hands covering it. Behind him, the blonde resident stepped forward.

  ‘Let me look at him,’ she said, the first words she’d spoken since they’d barged in. The grey-haired man turned, about to refuse. ‘I’m a nurse,’ she said. ‘Let me look at him.’

  Hearing that, the man relented and stepped back, allowing her to examine Carson. He shifted his attention to Archer, who’d turned from the window, studying him, the next problem on his mental checklist.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Sam Archer. NYPD.’

  ‘Division?’

  ‘Counter Terrorism.’

  ‘Rank?’

  ‘Detective. 3rd Grade.’

  The Marshal looked at his waist. ‘Where’s your badge and piece?’

  ‘At home. I’m off duty. Just came from the gym.’

  Pause. The man looked at him for a long moment, weighing him up. ‘I saw you. Before it went down. You were on the bench by the Park. What were you doing?’

  ‘Relaxing after a workout. Having a drink.’

  ‘Why’d you help?’

  ‘It’s my job. Wouldn’t you?’

  The Marshal continued to look at him closely. After a long pause, he nodded.

  ‘I’m Foster,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘First name John. Thank you for what you did. Looks like we’re stuck together for the time being.’

  Archer stepped forward and shook it. Foster jabbed a finger towards the window at the uninjured man, who was still watching the action down on the street, his pistol still clutched in his right hand.

  ‘That’s Barlow. The guy on the couch is Carson.’ He pointed to the dark-haired woman, who was sitting with the girl, holding her close. ‘That’s Vargas. They’re all my people.’

  Archer nodded a greeting to them, which Vargas returned. Barlow ignored him.

  ‘What now, John?’ he asked Foster instead. ‘The cops are keeping the gunmen busy.’

  ‘Now they get annihilated,’ he said, taking out his cell phone and dialling a number.

  He walked forward and peered out of the window again, the gunfight between the cops and the four men continuing unabated. He watched as an arriving NYPD squad car was ripped apart, automatic gunfire smashing into it, a brutal onslaught, the windows and fender smashing, the lights on the roof torn to pieces. Whoever was armed with the assault rifle sure as hell had plenty of spare ammunition and seriously bad intentions to go with it.

  ‘Dalton, it’s me,’ Foster said into the cell, once the call connected. ‘We’ve got a situation here.’

  The noise of the initial gunfight had attracted the attention of a number of residents in the building. The full-on war that was going out there right now got scores of them coming out of their apartments.

  Some were going downstairs to see what was happening but quickly retreated when they saw the quartet in the lobby ducked down by the windows and firing at police outside. Many of them weren’t as surprised as might have been expected; this part of Harlem wasn’t the most savoury place in Manhattan and shootings weren’t uncommon around here.

  However, this still looked pretty heavy and most of them decided to stay out of it, heading back up the stairs as quickly as they’d come down.

  The guy with the AK stepped in front of the smashed window and squeezed off an entire magazine, shell casings spraying from the ejection port, everyone on the street pinned down. When the rifle clicked dry, he ducked back and reloaded, pulling another from the bag over his shoulder, the barrel of the weapon
smoking. He’d brought more than a couple of spares. Last night, after Braeten told them about the job, he’d spoken with the guy he sourced his weapons from. The man had offered him an AK-47 and seven extended magazines; it had been already used in a gang shooting in the Bronx, and he was keen to get it off his hands. They agreed on five hundred bucks for the lot. Right now, that decision was proving to have been a worthwhile investment. None of the pigs outside had that kind of firepower at their disposal.

  Standing behind him and seeing some onlookers on the stairs, Braeten wracked his brains, considering their next best move. He looked around the lobby, thinking.

  Then his eyes settled on something which gave him an idea.

  Upstairs, Foster was in the corner of the sitting room, talking on the phone quietly while constantly checking the situation on the street below. The homeowner was tending to Carson, his back arching in pain from the gunshot wound. Across the room, Barlow watched them every now and then, switching his attention back and forth from Carson to the street. Vargas had just stepped outside the room with the girl to avoid her watching the gunshot wounded man and further upsetting her. Knowing he could do nothing else to help him either right now, Archer followed and joined them in the kitchen.

  He used the moment to check the layout of the apartment. It was a relatively small, compact place. He’d just stepped out of the sitting room, positioned on the right of the apartment, and was now in the kitchen; to the left was a bathroom, the door open through which he could see a tiled wall and bathtub, some bottles and a bar of soap sitting in a cluster on the side of the tub.

  To his right, the little girl was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table as Vargas poured her a glass of water from the sink across the room. She walked forward and passed it to the girl, watching her drink and keeping close tabs on her. Given it was the first moment of calm in a while, Archer used the opportunity to get a good look at the female Marshal.

  She was petite, dark-featured and slim, with jet black hair and hazel eyes. She was dressed in a white top and black jeans; she’d been wearing a cream-coloured shirt when he’d first seen her down on the street but it had been used in the Tahoe to staunch the blood flow from the wound to Carson’s gut. She had what looked like a Glock 22 in a holster on her hip beside her badge, cuffs and two spare clips, a small black satchel bag resting beside them with the strap over her opposite shoulder. He’d noticed Foster, Barlow and Carson all had two guns, whereas she only had one. She was extremely attractive and looked young, in her late twenties, but there was definitely a layer of steel underneath all that beauty. There would have to be for her to qualify as a US Marshal; their training programme and day-to-day work were notoriously hard. She was calm, focusing on the child and didn’t seem overly worried about their current predicament. There was definitely more to this woman than first met the eye. He figured there would be a few guys out there somewhere who’d learnt that the hard way.

  Switching his attention to the little girl, he smiled. She had similar colouring to Vargas but Archer guessed they weren’t related. They didn’t look sufficiently alike, not to mention that Vargas wouldn’t be bringing her daughter on operations. She looked maybe six or seven, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, white sneakers on her feet with the laces double-tied. Her presence here was confusing and raised a number of questions in his mind, but for the moment he left them alone.

  The child took another sip of water from the glass, then looked over at him.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.

  She flicked a glance at Vargas.

  ‘Jennifer,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. Her eyes were red rimmed with tears and she kept glancing at the sitting room door, Carson’s occasional groans of pain audible through the thin wall.

  ‘I’m Archer,’ he said, trying to distract her. ‘You’re being very brave.’

  She sniffed and nodded but didn’t respond.

  The sitting room door beside them opened and Foster appeared; he glanced back over his shoulder.

  ‘Barlow, watch Jack.’

  Closing the door, he walked forward and approached the girl. ‘Are you OK?’

  She nodded, looking up at the huge man, who dwarfed her.

  ‘What’s the situation?’ Vargas asked.

  ‘I called Dalton and told him what happened. He’d already seen it on the tube and is on his way.’ He looked at Archer. ‘Agency task force. Ten or twenty strong task force. They’ll be here within half an hour. They’ll get us out quickly.’

  He stepped forward and glanced out of the kitchen window, looking down at the street again. The gunfight between the cops and the gunmen who’d ambushed Foster and his team had lessened in severity slightly, but it was still going on, occasional shots fired, everyone still taking cover. It was a sea of blue and red flashing lights down there, officers behind vehicles with handguns and Mossbergs aimed at the entrance of the building, none of them risking coming anywhere closer.

  ‘A stand-off,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t think they’ll be getting in any time soon,’ Archer said. ‘One of the gunmen had an assault rifle.’

  Foster nodded. ‘AK. Cop killer. I saw it.’

  He stepped back from the window.

  ‘Sons of bitches. I knew they’d try. I could sense it.’

  ‘How the hell did they know where we were?’ Vargas said.

  Foster didn’t reply. The door to the sitting room opened and the homeowner appeared, looking grim, wiping off her hands on a small flannel. She had crows-feet around her eyes and a worn expression on her face, her hair half-tied back with some loose strands hanging down either side. She looked a bit unsteady, but not from fear. Archer had spotted an open, half-full bottle of Southern Comfort and a glass on the kitchen counter when he’d walked out here. She’d have been settling down for the evening, not expecting visitors. Especially not ones with gunshot wounds to the stomach and carrying pistols. She closed the door behind her.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Foster asked her.

  ‘Not good,’ she said. ‘Not good at all. The bullet hit him in the gut. He needs help immediately.’

  ‘Back up is on the way. He just needs to hang on for an hour.’

  She shook her head. ‘He might not have an hour.’

  ‘He’s tough. He’ll make it.’

  Pause.

  ‘I’m Helen,’ the woman said, sighing and running her hand through her hair worriedly.

  ‘Foster. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘You mind telling me what this is about?’

  Foster hesitated. She saw the look on his face. ‘You just dragged a seriously wounded man into my apartment, who is currently bleeding out all over my couch. There’s a gunfight going on downstairs and police surrounding the building. You’ve barricaded the door with my refrigerator and you’re all carrying guns. I don’t think an explanation is too much to ask. Do you?’

  Foster looked at her, then nodded.

  ‘We’re Federal Marshals. Carson, Barlow and Vargas are my people.’

  ‘You already said that.’

  ‘Where were you headed?’ Archer asked.

  Foster turned to him. ‘What?’

  ‘You were getting into a car. Where were you going?’

  ‘Spokane.’

  ‘Safe house?’

  Foster nodded slowly. Observing him, Archer noticed his reticence, reluctant to give anything away, even his own name. He looked tough as teak; drawing information from him was like getting blood from a stone. He had an aura of strength. Archer liked him already.

  Helen went to ask something else but suddenly a shrill sound filled the building, a wailing siren. The fire alarm. The unexpected noise made them all jump. Foster pulled his.44 as Vargas drew her Glock and drew Jennifer behind her, all of them staring in the direction of the refrigerator and instantly back on edge.

  The alarm quickly got people opening their doors all over the building. Braeten had found the switch downstairs on the wall beside an e
mergency panel and pulled it. He and two of the others had split up and were now working their way through the block, searching the corridors and everyone they passed on the stairs for the Marshals.

  They were sticking to the lower floors; the group wouldn’t have had time to go anywhere higher. He’d guess they were somewhere between 1 and 6. If they emptied at least the lower portion of the tenement block, it would be far easier to hunt them down once everyone was gone.

  Downstairs, the front door was being held open, the lock broken from when they’d smashed their way inside. The man with the AK was guarding it, forcing the residents out as soon as they appeared from the stairwells, responding to the alarm. Across the street, the NYPD had held their fire, unwilling to take the risk of hitting any of the people who were now streaming out of the building, urged on by the man holding the assault rifle.

  ‘Everybody out!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s go! Right now!’

  People continued to flood into the lobby, many of them half-dressed. They all jerked to a stop when they saw the smashed glass and the man with the Kalashnikov, people piling up behind them, but he kept the weapon on them and pulled the cocking handle for effect, a shell jumping out of the ejection port.

  ‘Get the hell out!’

  As the alarm continued to ring, Foster kept his Magnum trained on the refrigerator, looking down the sights of the large handgun, waiting for one of the assholes to try and break in. He’d already taken out one of their group, the kid who’d shot Carson, putting one of the.44 bullets in the middle of his chest when they’d been jumped in the street. His friends could join him.

  ‘Did they start a fire?’ Helen asked, loudly enough so the others could hear.

  Archer shook his head, reading the situation and feeling uneasy.

  They’re clearing the building, he thought.

  And they’re not giving up.